I had forgotten to tell you that a few weeks ago, I went to Boyacá because I was deeply worried about Ardilla. Lately, I had noticed how pain was slowly transforming him into something dark and somber, and the thought of death whispered to him every night. So, I felt the need to go see him, to tell him he wasn’t alone, that even though the outlook was heartbreaking, he could count on me—that I could accompany him through those dark moments.
We met, and we hugged because there has always been a bond of affection and complicity that has endured over the years. I knew he understood that I was there to give him some of my strength, that he could take some of my resilience, make it his own, and fight his battles. We laughed, slept together, spent time together, and talked about many things as we always have. Over drinks, he told me that death constantly seduces him and that one day he will decide to accept its invitation for a final dance, and I should accept his decision. I accompanied him in his plans, doing the things he enjoys most. I met his friends again and spent time with them. Then came the moment of farewell. I couldn’t contain the sadness I felt about leaving him alone amidst so much pain. I began to cry and told him, "Don’t forget that you’re my pilot." I left him a hidden gift under the pillow we shared during those days—a frame, a candle, three Hot Wheels cars (because he loves them), and a letter where I told him a story about the Day of the Dead.
On the bus ride back, I realized that he had understood what he meant in my life and what I was willing to do to make him feel better and shield him from pain. I knew he felt the same love for me. When I arrived home, I felt strange, as farewells make you feel uncomfortable when you’d rather be somewhere else. So, I lay down to reflect on what had happened. I glanced at my suitcase, which I hadn’t even attempted to unpack, and noticed that the lamp beside it looked strange. I felt confused and an immense emptiness in my chest.
At that moment, I realized I had returned to the room we once shared, crying on the bed because we had broken up, and he had decided to go drinking with his friends. We ended our relationship, and he still thought I didn’t love him enough. He moved out and left me to fend for myself because he wasn’t willing to fight for me anymore, even though I had bet everything on him despite my friends warning me he wasn’t good for me.
I blinked again and was in the room I had moved into after our breakup, crying nonstop for three months. Not only had I lost the only person I had ever truly loved, but I also had a problem at university because of a party we attended where I ended up fighting someone who tried to harm him. There I was, crying while he drank and partied every day. Alone and with the worst reputation at my university.
Then, in an instant, I was in the room of the person I met four months after our breakup because I was terrified of continuing to feel lonely, empty, and sad. I was there, knowing I would never be as happy as I had been after meeting the person who filled my heart. But I didn’t want to feel so bad anymore, and I didn’t know how to be alone.
Then I was having lunch at the place we used to go to, watching him walk in with his ex-girlfriend, as they had gotten back together. They stayed together for two years after we broke up.
Two years later, I was walking down the street where the building he lived in with the only woman he had truly loved stood. I saw them coming down the stairs, laughing as he carried her on his back. He kept going back to her countless times, even though they had a toxic relationship for four years, and she had left him alone in his darkest moments.
Four years later, I found myself in Palomino, watching from a distance as my boyfriend’s face transformed into Ardilla’s face. Step by step, he approached me, and I asked him, "Why did it take you so long to get here?"
And after that cascade of painful memories, I returned to the harsh present. I saw reality as it was—raw.
I had made this trip under very complex circumstances because his father had passed away a few months earlier. My joy at seeing him took a backseat because I was more worried than happy. For the first time, I noticed the things he told me—that he wasn’t the same, that he had changed, that he felt empty and sad. It was strange to see him taking refuge in hollow laughter and alcohol. But undeniably, he was no longer the same. I didn’t know who was beneath that thick mask he wore around others.
The first moment of discomfort came when he asked if it would be a problem to have dinner with his ex-girlfriend (the one he was with for two years) and her current boyfriend. Though I tried my best, he later made jokes about the situation, saying things like, "The only one left for me to hook up with at this table is you." I couldn’t understand the need for such an insensitive comment.
Of the three days I spent with him, he drank on two of them. One night, he even forgot what he told me. That day, we were together, and the next day, he talked about the women he had been with, contradicting his claim that he hadn’t been with anyone during those months. I felt like an object—just another name on the list. Even though I had told him I wasn’t there for that, I was just another woman he had been with that year. Yet there I was, trying to make sense of his constant words: "You’re the only woman I can truly be myself with."
Deep down, I started considering the possibility that to him, I was nothing more than an object. That idea tore at my soul, but something stronger always prevailed—the love I felt for him. That love led me to cauterize each wound before I could even feel the pain, convincing myself that if I endured just a little more, gave a little more, he would see it, understand my devotion, and that love would heal everything. But at that moment, as he spoke indifferently about other women, I realized my hopes were as fragile as I was.
There I was, in my room, reliving memories and moments we shared. Tasting the bitterness of the pain that consumed me from within. My heart, always full of hope, had never truly healed. The truth was, the only one who had truly loved in our story was me.
For the first time in our friendship, I felt the weight of reality crush all my dreams and illusions. His memories, which once wrapped me in warm comfort, now brought only a paralyzing chill. Nostalgia, which once made me smile, had become an abyss that froze my soul. And in that moment, I understood that everything I had believed, everything I had felt, was just an illusion I had nurtured alone.
So, after ten years, I accepted—with a burning, empty feeling in my chest—that this story would never have a happy ending. It was a bitter but necessary acceptance, as if letting him go was the only way I could finally breathe without the constant pressure of what could have been. The truth was that, though my heart still bled for what we never became, I understood that the happy ending isn’t always the one we expect—it’s the one we are capable of accepting.
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